A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret suffering, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music.
(Soren Kierkegaard)

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Untitled

Hunchedher back, a cat's curveknees to chesthuddled on the curbclosed

Her eyes locked with hisas if it were a contestneither willing to breakthe tenuous human connectiontheir spell destroyed by my nearnesstheir self imposed blissan adolescent solitary cellsprung opentheir interlacing fingersknowingly land entwinedraw with the urge
to mergeas they flee the interruption

I nudge my envyinto the landof wonderment and thankfulness

This possibility awaits for meeven as ifa faint hope

never guessingin a few short hoursI will turn and facethe headlights of yourapproaching desire